


A Gentle and Responsive Lover

by Steadfxst



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Crushes, F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 22:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14799156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steadfxst/pseuds/Steadfxst
Summary: Flynn has imagined what kind of lover Lucy would be on more than one occasion...





	A Gentle and Responsive Lover

**Author's Note:**

> The amazingly perfect "cut for time scene" that inspired this fic: https://twitter.com/TheTimelessRoom/status/1001590109416767488

The first time Flynn imagines sleeping with Lucy, it’s right after she meets him for the first time. At the Hindenburg. He feels like he knows everything about her, and all she knows about him is that he’s a killer. (He is, but that’s not the point.)

When he lies down in his bed that night, all he can see in his head is her fierce glare, her strong stance, the set of her mouth. His hand slips into his pants as he imagines grabbing her by the hair, kissing her roughly. He imagines her biting him, and he moans. He wants her to mark him. Mark him as hers.

He’s hers. He feels like he’s always been hers.

It takes him an embarrassingly short time to come.

* * *

The second time Flynn imagines sleeping with Lucy, it’s right after Vegas. He’d seen her in her stolen cocktail waitress outfit and had immediately hardened in his slacks. He watched her from across the room as she smiled and flirted with guests so as not to arouse suspicion. She stick a five in her cleavage, and he almost forgets why he’s there.

Almost.

He has to tell Judith Campbell she has an important phone call from her sister.

* * *

The third time he imagines sleeping with Lucy is after she escapes the Alamo. Everyone present was expendable, but her death and the deaths of the women and children, was _never_ the plan. He’d thought Wyatt and Rufus were expendable until he later learned that they’d used some modern grenades to blow up the hole in the floor to the aqueduct.

He pictures himself holding her in his arms, comforting her. She was safe now. Nothing was going to hurt her now that she was out of there. Least of all Flynn himself. He would never let anything happen to her.

Flynn bites his lip, grunts softly, and spills into his fist.

* * *

The fourth time Flynn imagines sleeping with Lucy is after the first time he teams up with his rivals as they defect with Benedict Arnold.

“A woman? A negro?” Benedict Arnold says. “You're insane. He'd see her in his bed and him in the fields.”

Flynn sees red.

 _No one_ was _ever_ going to lay a finger on Lucy Preston if he had anything to say about it.

“You will introduce us to him,” Flynn says.

He’ll kill the bastard himself. Kill Rittenhouse in the literal cradle this time.

Flynn would never call himself heroic, but he’d do anything for Lucy. He can’t quite explain where his extreme protectiveness comes from, but it’s always there, sitting deep in his chest, heaving. It wants to explode out of him.

With Rittenhouse eliminated, they could be together. He would leave his wife and daughter—safe, happy, and alive—and he could go to Lucy, where the black spots on his soul wouldn’t be as crippling.

Lucy would understand, then. They would come together to celebrate their freedom. It would be so natural, he thinks.

He hopes.

* * *

The fifth time he imagines sleeping with Lucy after she betrays him and gets him arrested.

“I trusted you!” he screams as two agents ambush him with handcuffs.

She calls after him. She didn’t know, she said. She had no idea.

They have to sedate him to get him into his windowless cell, and when he awakes, he’s livid.

That bitch Christopher was the reason he was here. Trapped here like an animal while his family languished. Lucy had promised. She had _promised_. He bangs his fist against the concrete wall. She had _lied_.

The waves of anger, pain, and nausea are overwhelming. He clenches his fist.

This time, he doesn’t picture passion or flirtation or coy behavior of anytime.

He imagines throwing her onto the bed, pinning her wrists, no, tying her wrists to the bedframe, and toying with her until she was begging, _begging_ him to let her come. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He imagines her naked, trembling, wanting him, wanting to come, and he not giving it to her.

Flynn curses the shackles that limit the range of motion he has for his hands now because he’s hard enough to pound nails and the images won’t leave his brain.

He had to get out of here.

* * *

The sixth time he imagines sleeping with Lucy is during the Salem witch trials.

She didn’t betray him. Of course she hadn’t. So used to being used and abused, he’d assumed the worst. The most surprising thing though? They’re all actually a _team_ now.

Flynn watches her interact with the women, and he’s once again struck by her extraordinary ability to both sympathize and empathize with people of a time so different from hers. And no matter where they— _when_ they are—she never looks out of place.

If he’s being honest with himself, she looks lovely even wearing her baggy, stolen Puritan dress. There’s something about the swish of the big skirt around her boots that charms him, and suddenly Flynn understands the old joke of Puritans being endlessly aroused by exposed ankles.

Flynn imagines taking her into the stable and pushing her skirts up out of the way, pushing her against a support beam, kissing her, pulling her leg up around his waist—all the better to push into her. He pictures himself swallowing her gasps as the thrill of being caught surged between them.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “Still seasick?”

She interrupts his thoughts with a mischievous smile.

“Lost in thought,” he says.

“We’d better get moving.”

He agrees and lets her lead the way.

It would probably be best if he was behind Lucy and Rufus until he’d calmed himself down.

* * *

The seventh time Flynn imagines sleeping with Lucy, he almost doesn’t have to.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Flynn says, amusement tickling the corners of his mouth.

He gently takes the bottle from her. Lucy smiles wide and openly, and he can honestly say he’s never seen her look more beautiful. (He didn’t think that was even _possible_.)

“Maaaaaaybe you’re right,” she says.

She lies down on his bed and stretches herself out. Lucy bows her back and gives a mewl of contentment as all her muscles relax at once. Her shirt rides up, exposing her soft, white stomach. Flynn’s brain nearly short circuits.

“Come here,” she says.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Flynn says.

“Sure it is.”

“You need to sleep this off.”

“Why don’t you come sleep _me_ off?” she giggles.

“That’s very funny,” Flynn says.

He walks towards her. Time to put her to bed in the most literal sense of the term. He picks up first one calf and then the other to slip off her shoes. She sleepily watches him maneuver her. He moves back a step. Lucy frowns.

“Don’t you want me?” she asks.

She spreads her legs, pouts. It’s everything he’s ever wanted tied up, wrapped in a bow, and handed to him.

“Of course I do,” he says, knowing she won’t remember this tomorrow. He pulls the blanket up over her. “Who doesn’t?”

“You. Wyatt. Josephine Baker.”

Flynn snorts.

“Maybe next time, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart?” she asks.

Her eyes are already closed.

“What? You don’t like it?”

“No, I do. I just—” She yawns, turns over, and buries her face into his pillow, his scent. “—wasn’t expecting it. I like it.”

She snores softly.

Flynn smiles.

“Good night, Lucy.”


End file.
